


heart as loud as lions

by DoctorSyntax



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Library Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23222080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: Two years is a lifetime, and if Viktor treats her now with the gentle deference she needed back then, Hermione doesn’t know how she’ll survive it.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum
Comments: 8
Kudos: 153





	heart as loud as lions

**Author's Note:**

> This draws on a nebulous mix of movie and book canon; it's based on the premise that, after the Burrow burns in HBP, Hermione would cut her holiday with her parents short to be with Harry and the Weasleys at Grimmauld Place.

Hermione shuts the heavy book on her lap with a sigh, leaning back into the plush couch on which she’s been curled up for the last two hours. When she shuts her eyes and stills her mind, she’s able to tune back into the low susurration of Harry and Ron’s wireless radio in the next room over, broadcasting the International Holiday Quidditch Match. Though she can’t make out any individual words, she can guess by the modulated tone of the two announcers that the match is over and they’ve moved onto the strategy-discussing segment of the evening. As she half-listens, one of the commentators raises his voice in a way that suggests _argument_ , not _excitement_ , so she feels even more secure in her assessment.

The boys had switched on the wireless the minute she’d left the room earlier; she’s angry about that, in a way she’s trying very hard to moderate and hide. Alone and at the end of the calendar year, she can admit to herself that she’s exhausted: tired of Ron, tired of Lavender, tired—almost in the worst way—of Harry and his cautious, gentle treatment of her.

As if the constant reminder that she’s hurt and furious and not handling it terribly well, would somehow make things _easier_ on her.

After a minute’s consideration, she gets up and goes to the room that she and Ginny are sharing over the holidays in order to fetch some fresh parchment. As she passes the boys’ slightly-ajar door on the way back to the library, she catches a stray sentence from the wireless— _always, excellent flying by Krum—_ and pushes the door open without knocking.

The boys, each of them on their bed, scramble into a sitting position until they realize it’s only her and relax.

“Harry,” she begins, and wonders when addressing only Harry will stop feeling like she’s deliberately ignoring Ron, “do you think I might borrow Hedwig tonight? I wouldn’t ask, only—”

“Writing to Vicky?” Ron asks, and she’s sure it’s meant to sound perfectly innocent, but it _doesn’t_ , and her eyes narrow before she can quite stop herself.

“I fail to see how that’s any—”

“Sure, Hermione,” Harry interrupts. “She’d be glad of the exercise, anyway.”

Hermione bites her tongue before she can say that Hedwig would hardly be going far. The last thing she wants to do is give Ron the satisfaction of being right. “Thanks,” she says instead, and leaves the room before she or Ron can continue their argument. As she closes the door behind her, she hears three things, in order: 1, a dull thump; 2, a noise of surprise from Ron; 3, the post-match commentary getting turned up a notch or two.

Instead of sitting on the couch she’d occupied for most of the night, once Hermione gets back to the library she sits on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, using the latter as a writing surface, and glancing every so often toward the library entrance.

_Dear Viktor,_  
_I’m sorry to write again without waiting for your response to my last letter, but I didn’t know to whom I could turn, besides you._

When she finishes, she sneaks down to the small room between the kitchen and dining room—once the butler’s pantry, now a makeshift owlery. Pigwidgeon starts to hoot and fly around at her appearance, but Hedwig seems to know Hermione’s there for her, and serenely holds out her leg. It’s almost as if she’s demonstrating to Pigwidgeon how a _real_ post owl ought to behave. “To Viktor Krum, please,” Hermione whispers, and though Hedwig doesn’t nip her affectionately as Hermione’s seen her do to Harry, the owl nonetheless communicates her willingness with a look. 

As Hedwig steps carefully onto her outstretched arm, Hermione gazes at the swinging door into the dining room and wonders what would happen if she opened it. 

She knows, of course. The low murmur of voices would stop, and whichever Order members happened to be clustered around the table would stare at her in silent expectation until Molly Weasley stood up and ushered her out of the room.

She just wishes the Order would give them _something_ to do, she muses bitterly as she opens the kitchen window for Hedwig. For a moment she stands alone in the kitchen and watches as the snowy-white owl fades into the black evening, then shuts the window and goes back to her book upstairs.

Perhaps 40 minutes later, Hermione hears, and takes no notice of, someone coming up the main staircase. But when the footfalls halt at closed library door, she sits up, half-closing her book as she listens intently. Perhaps Hedwig has already brought her a return letter.

The door opens.

It takes Hermione a moment to process what—who—appears in the doorway. Her heart stops as she takes in the figure, looking heart-stoppingly well in his match-day dress robes hanging open to reveal suit trousers and a crisp button-down. She can see at a glance that the years have treated him well. 

“Viktor,” she exhales, voice hardly above a whisper. His birdlike features soften with a fond smile as he opens his arms to her like it hasn’t been two years since they parted. With an abandon that surprises even her, Hermione runs the remaining distance between them and throws herself into his embrace. He hugs her tightly, but silently, and she wants to follow his lead but she has so many _questions_ that she can’t help them spilling out.

She barely remembers to modulate her voice before whispering, “What are you doing here? How did you get in? Did you get my letter?”

He laughs quietly, a low rumbling she can feel in her chest. “Cannot answer so many questions at once, Hermyonee.” She only realizes he’d lifted her off the floor when he puts her down. “Somewhere quiet? We will talk.”

“Yes, of course,” she says, flustered. “This way.” She takes his hand and he allows her to lead him into the library. Viktor attempts to shut the door behind them, but each time he gets it closed it immediately pops back open a fraction. Hermione lets him try a few times, watching his frown become more and more pronounced each time it doesn’t work. Finally, he notices her soft giggles and looks to her for an explanation.

“Modified sticking charm,” she says. “All the doors on the upper level have them, Si—Mrs. Weasley says.”

“What is point, to have door that does not shut?”

She blushes. “Well, it only activates if there are two unmarried members of the opposite sex in the room…”

There is a knowing gleam in Viktor’s eyes, but he asks, “What will open door do?”

Instead of answering, she glances away, and he catches her chin in his hand, forcing her to look up, into his eyes. There is mischief there; there is fondness. In his dark eyes she recognizes the same depth of emotion that has always been there. She has not seen him in so long but she remembers his touch; her body responds to him as eagerly as it had during fourth year.

If she’s being honest, it responds more. Something deep in the pit of her stomach is almost disappointed when he kisses her forehead and gently draws her back into his embrace.

“Have missed you,” he says, and she swallows down a gasp and hugs tighter.

“I’ve missed you too.”

After what feels like an eternity, but isn’t nearly long enough, she untangles their embrace and quietly shuts the door to the point it will allow. Just a small amount of light from the library spills out into the hall—a sliver, really—but in a house this drafty it’s likely to open further with the slightest provocation. For good measure, she selects a thick book from the nearest shelf, and leans it against the door. It pushes against the door, wobbles a little as the door’s charms push back, and reaches a precarious equilibrium that will certainly knock over the book if someone tries to open the door. It feels enough like privacy that she’s satisfied, and after a quick flick of her wand at the fireplace she’d been neglecting, she settles back onto the couch.

“Join me?” she asks, and Viktor does. She watches his progress across the room, and thinks about a young man, graceful in the sky and awkward everywhere else, like his body was too big for himself. He looks more grown-up than he did before. More at ease in his skin. It could be the changes that come with maturity, but—

“Where was our first kiss?” she asks suddenly, and he doesn’t miss a beat.

“Behind tapestry at Yule Ball. You started.”

“It really is you,” she breathes. “But—how?”

Viktor looks a bit uncomfortable. “Cannot say whole story.”

She wants to interrupt, _I know about the Order_ but stops herself at the last second in case that’s not what he means.

“After tournament, your Headmaster ask for—help. Cooperation, I think is word. Today I come to England for Quidditch, Headmaster says, please bring him something. Bring to this house. Cannot say more.”

“I understand,” Hermione says, but only lets the subject drop because she knows he’ll never be persuaded to give up more details. More than that, she’s hesitant to expose Viktor more; if he’s working with Dumbledore and the Order, the less anyone knows, the better. “Did he tell you I would be here?”

“No, a surprise,” Viktor says with a smile. “Weasley’s _mama_ brings me inside, so I ask about you. I think she will know how you are doing. She says to go upstairs, ask you myself. Could not believe until I saw you.” He catches one of her hands with his. “Too much to hope for.”

“I’d just been wishing I could see you,” she says, distracted by the way his thumb runs gently over her forefinger. “Harry and—Ron had the match on, and I was listening and—”

“Have letter,” Viktor says, patting his pocket with a smirk. “Owl found me in street. Did not have to fly far.”

“Hedwig must have been disappointed; I know she’s been bored here lately.” If she sent Hedwig out 45 minutes ago, and she found him in the street, that means he must have gotten here only minutes later. She must have barely gotten back to the library when he arrived, meaning he’s been downstairs with the Order for the entire time she’d been up here struggling with _Advanced Codebreaking_.

“Should read?” he asks, pulling out the parchment she’d folded up not one hour ago. He doesn’t make a move to let go of her hand and open the letter, but she eyes it distrustfully. He places the letter against his forehead. “I will guess.”

“Dear Viktor,” Viktor begins, teasingly. “How are you? Miss you very much. Miss handsome face, England very cold and lonely. Please visit. Love, Her-my-o-nee.”

With a sickening thought, Hermione realizes that the letter is nothing like that.

 _Nothing_ like that.

She’d rather regrow every bone in her body than let Viktor open that letter—little more than a stream-of-consciousness diatribe about everything she hates in her life—the fear, the uncertainty, the stress—all of it twining around and coming back, inexorably, to _Ron Weasley_ and how she doesn’t know how to shut down her emotional reactions to him. Now that she’s seeing Viktor in person, Hermione can’t imagine how she ever thought he would be the right person to send those thoughts to.

She’s forced to reckon with the fact that somewhere along the way, she turned Viktor into a safe space in her mind, hardly more than another girlfriend. He’s not that—he’s _never_ been that. Seeing him in person, recognizing how she reacts to him physically and emotionally, she’s not sure how she ever forgot.

“Mila,” Viktor says gently, interrupting her thoughts. “What is wrong? Many miles away.”

She forces herself to meet his gaze, and makes a decision. Grabbing her wand off the table, she banishes the letter off his lap and directly into the fire, where it burns instantly.

When she turns back, Viktor is rapidly lowering his wand—she has no idea where he pulled it from. His body language is rigid and closed-off. “Almost hex you,” he says angrily, pulling her wand out of her hand and throwing his and hers both onto the coffee table. “Why do you burn letter? Was _joke_.”

She closes her eyes, because of course it was. It’s exactly the thing she would have laughed at, under normal circumstances; Viktor knows her sense of humor and he’s always been able to pull her out of her own head. Her sudden movements—as if he wouldn’t have just given the letter back to her, if she’d asked—must have startled him terribly.

“I’m sorry,” she says thickly, tongue feeling heavy and awkward. “I wasn’t thinking—of course—I—oh, Viktor.” She buries her face in her hands, and almost immediately he is prising them away.

She can _see_ him decide to forgive and forget. “Hard to be seventeen,” he says knowingly, and it earns a shaky laugh from her.

“Very hard.”

“Remember seventeen very much,” he continues. “Join national team, become big star. Famous Quidditch player but bad at talking to girls, have trouble in school because of not enough time to study. Feel very angry all the time, cannot show it in case a photographer will see.” He smiles a little. “Everyone see anyway.”

“You seem to have figured it out by eighteen,” she says, wondering wistfully if things will ever sort themselves out for her.

“Eighteen much better year,” he agrees. “Still very angry, but travel to new country, do many new things. Meet smart and beautiful witch who will study with me, hold hands under table. Go to dance with me even though I compete against friend.” He strokes the side of her face, over the blush on her cheek. “Maybe eighteen will be better for Hermyonee, too.”

Something about his tone is too serious. It feel like more than she can reckon with, a heat she cannot be near without wanting to throw herself onto the flames.

“Don’t you want to know what was in the letter?” she blurts out.

He studies her. It’s hard to maintain eye contact. “You tell me,” he says.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think you do.”

She’s hoping for another one of his jokes (“ _Letter is about my nose, yes? Mama does not think it is too big_ ”) but does not get her wish. The room goes utterly silent and still as his eyes darken. Is that the anger he spoke about before, simmering just beneath the surface of his very good manners?

“Write to say, do not want to be friends anymore?”

“N-no,” she breathes out, unable to elaborate. Viktor’s gaze is pinning her in a way she’d forgotten it could.

“Write to say, boyfriend is jealous, cannot write again?”

She feels sick with nerves as she shakes her head. “No. No boyfriend. Viktor—”

A kiss swallows the rest of her sentence, words she hadn’t planned out anyway disappearing into a gasp. Viktor’s mouth is insistent on hers, stronger and more forceful than it was in fourth year. More confident, she decides, until he pulls back and she sees his expression.

“Mistake?” he asks, and his eyes hold both caution and defiance. It's been two years since they've seen each other, after all. Almost a lifetime.

She could say yes. He’d stop, and apologize, and when he left they’d behave as if nothing had changed and everything was fine—and maybe, in time, it would be.

She could say no, and kiss him again, and pretend for a little while that she isn’t just an empty vessel for facts and confusion and the anger of betrayal. She could choose to be a woman instead of someone full of poison and feelings for someone else.

She could say that yes, it was a mistake, and he’d apologize—and this could be the last time she ever sees him alive. But she’s tired of people looking at her the way Viktor is now—like she’s some fragile thing which is nonetheless primed to explode at any provocation. Like Harry does. Like Ginny does.

“Not a mistake,” she decides, and kisses him again. She lets fifteen-year-old Hermione do what she hadn’t been confident enough to do back then, and runs her fingers through his now-longer hair, gripping tightly to pull him closer to her. In response, he wraps an arm around her waist and lifts her partly onto his lap.

Together, they collapse against the back of the sofa, kissing all the while. Viktor’s hands are braver compared to the last time they did this (though they never really did _this_ ). It’s nothing like when she was fifteen and caught in the conflict of what her mind thought she was ready for versus what her body felt she was ready for.

For the first time in a long time, Hermione feels _wanted_. Viktor’s hand rests warmly on the curve of her hip, and he kisses her like she’s a lifeline. This does not surprise her; what surprises her is how hungry she feels for his touch. She wants his blunt-fingered hands on her body. She wants his muscular legs tangled up in hers, his mouth on her skin.

She has always known that he is strong, of body and will and principle, but until this moment her favorite thing about him had been the strength of his control.

Now she is afraid he will be strong enough to withstand her need. Two years is a lifetime and if he treats her now with the gentle deference she needed back then, she doesn’t know how she’ll survive it.

Hermione curls her fingers around the crisp starched collar of his shirt and pulls him forward, shifting so that he is half-lying on top of her on the couch. He braces his arms on either side of her head and uses that to support most of his weight. “You are try to kill me,” he says in a low voice, kissing her jaw, her cheek, just below her ear.

“That would be counterproductive,” she answers, closing her eyes and tipping her head back so he can mouth her neck. She sighs at the kiss to her collarbone, again at the one to the spot just below. “You need to be alive for all the things I want you for.”

“Must live, then,” Viktor answers with a growl as she slides one of her legs between both of his. “Tell me about letter.”

There’s an edge of demand in his voice, something she’s heard before but never directed toward her. She doesn’t _want_ to tell him, afraid he’ll be angry and leave. But the least he deserves is the truth. Or a form of the truth she can bear to admit when all she wants in this moment is for the weight of his body to press her into the couch.

“I was—complaining,” she answers finally. “About a boy.”

Viktor moves off her suddenly, coming up to sit on his heels. Absurdly, she feels cold. “Boy from party?” he growls. “Still bothering you?”

Distracted by her half-truths, it takes Hermione a minute to piece together what he means. But then she remembers the bits about her personal life that have made it into the letters recently.

Two letters ago: _Ron has been feeling left out of this Slug Club business, so I had planned on asking him to escort me to Slughorn’s holiday party, as a friend. But recently he’s begun dating one of my roommates, and she’s rather jealous of our friendship as it is, so I’m going with a seventh-year Gryffindor instead. Harry is going with Luna, which is oddly sweet. I don’t mind saying, for your eyes only, that Luna can get on my nerves at times, but she and Harry are surprisingly well-suited…_

One letter ago: _Slughorn’s holiday party was rather boring. Most of the excitement came from me trying to avoid my date. There was mistletoe everywhere, you see, and he didn’t seem to understand that I find him boorish and repulsive… he did manage one kiss, but that’s all…_

She can’t find the right word quickly enough, unsure if she wants to even explain the misunderstanding. Viktor continues sternly, “Will have to teach him lesson about how to treat a lady.”

“Viktor Krum, you’ll do no such thing,” Hermione scolds automatically, shifting to prop herself up with her elbows and regain a _little_ ground, at least. Viktor’s still looking down at her, but she feels she has enough of an edge to continue, “I’ve already dealt with the situation, and anyway you have no right.”

Viktor’s eyes narrow. “Kiss me like that, but I have no right to protect? Have always protected Hermyonee, since we met.”

She’s furious in a way that makes it hard to speak. “Protect me from _what_?”

“From me!” Viktor says angrily. “So young when we met, and I want so much. I spend all my time not doing what I want, could not take advantage of little Hermyonee’s trust.” His mouth twists, nearly into a sneer. “Now you trust another boy, he does not realize such a gift. He does not care, try to take advantage, and you say I am not allowed to want to protect.”

“I’m not fifteen anymore, Viktor!” she hisses, all too aware that Harry and Ron are only one room over, and for all their flaws she knows they’ll come looking if it sounds like she’s in danger. “I’m not a child, and I won’t allow you to treat me like one.”

He draws back in confusion—she’d been expecting more heated words from him. Instead, he looks as if she’s slapped him. He’s silent for a moment, but she’s not angry enough to interrupt—she can see on his face that he’s taking a complex thought and translating it. These pauses were common to their brief courtship, but she never minded him taking them. She’ll be damned if she treats him badly for it now.

“Not what I mean,” he says finally. “What I mean was… I was eighteen when we met, yes? Now I am thinking, this boy is also eighteen. I know you are older now,” he says, reaching for her hand.

She lets him take it. She lets him draw her back down on the couch to sit beside him. She lets him tip her head so he can look her in the eyes, and the end of her anger fades away with his soft, earnest words.

“But also I know what this boy want, because for me… I also felt that desire. If you want those things too, ok. If you do not, and you write like you do not… I am angry. I did not try so hard to show you care and, what is word, worth, so he could take it away. Now I worry that I protect you too well, you think all boys will behave like me, you do not understand how hard you are to resist.”

She thinks of Ron, and all his backhanded compliments, and snorts, shaking her head. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Stupid boy want you under mistletoe not proof enough?”

She can feel herself blushing, but shakes her head again. Viktor leans in closer and asks in a low voice that sends a shiver down her spine, “Stupid boy lose head at Yule Ball not enough?”

This is building toward something, she’s sure of it, so even though she smiles at the memory ( _her, feeling grown-up and Gryffindor brave in her dress robes; him, seeming hesitant and then abruptly confident as she draws him behind a tapestry and presses her lips to his_ ), she shakes her head.

Viktor is so close now that their foreheads are touching.

“Stupid boy, kiss you now because you are grown and he is tired of nobility? Will you believe then?”

“It’s worth looking into,” she says breathlessly, and closes the distance between them.

In the years since they parted, Hermione’s allowed herself the occasional moment to relive their brief and chaste courtship. The memory of a stolen kiss or two in the library ( _never enough to truly distract them from studying_ ) or of them holding hands under a table in the Three Broomsticks ( _a little sweaty, but nice_ ) was always enough to put a happy, secret smile on her face and a pleasant fluttering sensation in her stomach.

These kisses are nothing like that.

Instead of short and sweet, Viktor’s kisses feel thorough and endless, each bleeding into the next as he gives and takes all in the same breath. Instead of butterflies, Hermione feels only heat in her belly, building and twisting back on itself to press all the breath from her lungs. Viktor slides a hand up her thigh, and Hermione feels the dull pressure of her arousal increasing in a way that it seems only Viktor has any control over.

That won’t do, so Hermione gets one hand between them, resting it on Viktor’s shoulder for a split second before _pushing_ , and as he breaks away from her his confusion only lasts as long as it takes for her to take a deep breath and straddle his lap.

It’s not the fact that Viktor’s hard (though of course she notices, _of course_ ) that draws Hermione’s sudden, surprised gasp—it’s the way his muscular thighs, spanning wider than she’d estimated, force her knees further apart than expected.

Viktor slides one hand down Hermione’s back, which feels perfectly wonderful all by itself, and when he reaches her waist, uses it to tug her closer, impossibly flush against his body. “Shh,” Viktor says, eyes alight with amusement. “Must not be heard. Order will be very angry I corrupt future member, Weasley mama not let me in her home again.”

It’s on the tip of her tongue to correct that no, this isn’t the Weasley home when she realizes... for the time being, it is. While the Burrow is rebuilt, they have nowhere else to go. It’s safer for all of them, Viktor included, if he doesn’t know anything about the home’s _real_ owner. Behind all that another part of her brain registers that _Viktor knows about the Order. By name_. Momentarily Hermione is disoriented as Viktor tips her backward and he leans with her, arm outstretched—

All makes sense as he grabs his wand off the coffee table and casts a quick sound-muffling charm. Between that and her makeshift book alarm leaning against the door, they’re reasonably protected against intrusions, but Hermione feels the small, secret thrill usually reserved for rule breaking as Viktor leans in and kisses her again. The idea that they may be caught like this ( _her on Viktor’s lap, his hands creeping dangerously high up her shirt_ ) is so unbelievably exhilarating that she bats Viktor’s hands away and strips off her shirt. Viktor’s hands wrap around hers, stilling them as she tries to unbutton his shirt, and she stops for a moment to really look at him for the first time since they started kissing.

It’s… so much. She’s seen his dark eyes, his intense and expressive face, in a hundred moments but everything seems a little sharper.

Abruptly she realizes how silent the room is.

Viktor’s voice is hoarse and sounds so loud as he murmurs, “Be sure.”

Hermione doesn’t have to think about it to know that she _is_. Her body has always been several steps ahead of her brain when it came to Viktor, but she’s older now, old enough to know that intelligence comes in many forms.

The way she feels about Ron often threatens to crowd out every other thought in her head. Her thoughts are so _loud ,_ but right now her body is louder. She knows Viktor; understands and trusts Viktor; their relationship has always been unusual, ineffable, the kind of thing that cannot be scrutinized in a logical way but is nevertheless as solid as fact.

She can feel Viktor’s thumbs against her palms. It’s not enough.

“Trust me,” she answers instead, and after a searching moment he releases her, holding the sides of her face with his large, strong hands. He kisses her so gently it puts her in mind of their youthful courtship—a stark reminder of the difference two years can make.

“Cannot stay,” he says quietly, and her heart drops into her stomach before she realizes he doesn’t mean that he’s about to get up and leave, but more broadly speaking. “I have no promise I can make.”

Hermione understands, really she does. But she has no promises either. “Viktor, for heaven’s sake,” she whispers, “shut up and kiss me.”

He chuckles softly, but does just that. Suddenly everything feels less urgent than it did even five seconds ago, so when Hermione slips the first button of his shirt undone, she pauses to press a kiss to the exposed skin there. She likes the way Viktor sighs, so she does it again for the next button. His hands finish opening the buttons while Hermione tugs the tails of his shirt free.

Even without the benefit of seeing other men shirtless, Hermione knows she’s looking at an above-average chest; something that deserves above-average appreciation. She looks her fill, running a hand over the plane of his abdomen, moving further and further down, not stopping when she reaches the cold metal buckle of his belt, not stopping when she reaches the warm fabric stretched tightly by the proof of his desire for her. 

His hips push up, shoving indelicately into her hand. “Mila—” he whispers, and there’s an urgency to her voice she doesn’t think she’s ever heard before.

“I understand,” she whispers, though she’s not sure she does. “Viktor…show me.”

He growls an answer, in a way she finds impossible endearing, almost… arousing?

He catches her up in her waist, in a way she can’t explain, and before she realizes what’s happening Viktor has twisted them both up in a movement that leaves her breathless, back flat against the plush but firm velvet settee.

“Viktor,” she says, one hand coming to rest agains his cheek. He kisses her in a way that leaves little doubt about what it is that he wants from her.

It feels so overwhelming to admit that it’s even less than she wants from him. Desire thrums through her in a way she doesn’t know how to process, leaving her to subservient to the whims of her body. It isn’t as if she’s never felt this way, but wanting to go along with it—indeed, feeling like she’ll die if she resists—is totally new to her.

She’d always thought desire would undo her. Instead, there’s an empowering element to it that allows her to meet his every movement. It keeps her from shying away as his mouth travels down her body, leaving searching kisses in the hollow of her breasts, over the ridges and valleys of her ribcage, into the hollow space where her stomach meets her hips. The skin there is so tender, so thoroughly untouched that she squirms slightly under his kisses. He glances up at her, to gauge the truth of her reaction. She manages a slight smile. “Intense,” she says.

“Intense good or intense bad?” he rasps.

“Good,” Hermione whispers, not sure where the answer is coming from but knowing it is true. So Viktor bends down and kisses her again.

“Sit up,” he says, as he himself leaves the couch to kneel on the floor before her.

Hermione’s read books. She knows what’s coming. “Viktor—” She doesn’t know what she’s trying to say. That he doesn’t have to? What a perfectly ridiculous societal construct. That she doesn’t want him to? That feels more true, but out of cowardice more than anything.

“Hmm?” he asks, skimming his hands along her pajama-clad thighs. His hands come to rest, thumbs pointing inward, perilously close to her bikini area. For a minute, Hermione balances on the precipice of restrictive pragmatism and exhilarating courage.

But she is a Gryffindor, so when she doesn’t answer right away and he prompts, “Too fast?”, she merely shakes her head.

“I want you to.”

She can see but cannot quantify the desire in his eyes, in his face, his everything. She can’t tell if he’s treating her like glass when he slowly, carefully removes her pajama bottoms, or if he’s trying to tease her—Viktor has always been a study in complexity, for those who care to look, and he’s perhaps the only person on earth capable of doing both of those things at the same time.

A silly as she’d felt in her pajamas, compared to Viktor’s tailored and formal clothes, she feels sillier still when she’s left only in her bra and panties, both depressingly sensible and not even a little sexy. Though she knows, in her mind, that the men worth sleeping with won’t care that she hasn’t shaved her legs in a while, she’d always kind of figured she’d have had a chance to prepare before her first time.

She barely has time to start to wonder if he’d be turned off by the dark hair on her pale legs when he answers the question by not even appearing to notice it. He runs his hands up her thighs again, this time letting his thumbs tickle her very sensitive inner thighs on the way. Her legs open under his touch, seemingly of their own accord, obeying instincts that have ensured the survival of her family line since the beginning of time.

She lifts her hips as Viktor tugs off her panties, feeling utterly naked in a way that she has never been before. He begins kissing his way up her legs, alternating from one inner thigh to the other, moving ever closer to her sex as he goes. She’s literally shaking with anticipation as he goes, fully aware that the door is open and anyone— _anyone_ —could walk in.

Viktor parts her labia by running a thumb between her folds, and pauses with the pad of his thumb on her clit.

She wonders what the _hell_ he’s waiting for.

His eyes are serious and hungry as he tells her, “Push me away if you do not like.”

“And if I like something especially?” Hermione asks, looking down at strong, handsome man between her legs and feeling bold and powerful and… was this what sexy felt like?

His eyes flicker to the side, and she knows it’s an unconscious attempt to check on the status of the door. Still closed, book still leant up against it. Still able to be opened from the outside with a push of the hand.

“Make noises,” he says. “But—little ones. Soft. I will listen for them.”

“Okay,” she says, softly, and she’s certain it’s only because she’s already dropped her tone that she keeps from gasping loudly at the first touch of Viktor’s tongue on her sex.

At first she’s unsure what to make of the sensation—it’s not what she expected, although she’d spend much more time considering the mechanics of penetrative sex, so perhaps she just hadn’t given it proper contemplation. But his tongue feels strong, and the slide of it against her is unfamiliar in an addicting sort of way, the puzzle of its movement and what he was going to do next keeping her in a perpetual state of interest. Just as she thinks she’s beginning to understand the rhythm, Viktor’s middle finger joins his tongue.

After a moment, the pad of his finger comes to rest, pressing but not forcing, against the rim of her opening. His tongue continues to work, but it’s the finger Hermione’s most focused on, wondering as she is _when_ Viktor’s going to do what she knows he’s going to do.

The pauses stretches on for a beat too long before Hermione realizes she’s been utterly silent this entire time.

“Please,” she whispers, unable to articulate what she’s asking for—hoping only that Viktor understands.

He does. His finger slides into her body with absolutely no resistance, though it’s larger than her own. But then, she’s never been this turned on before. It feels foreign and wonderful all at once, but she gasps again when he begins a slight curling motion, almost as if he’s using the finger still inside her to beckon her forward. It brushes up against the spot she found by much trial and error herself, and moves unerringly against it as Viktor’s mouth moves ever more insistently against her.

Noise does escape her now, little quiet breathy sounds that seem to echo in the silence of the library. She can only hope Viktor’s silencing charm is powerful as the pressure in her body builds to a breaking point and she cries out as her body spasms around his finger.

A noise in the next room immediately cuts through her post-orgasm honeyed daze, and she lifts her head off the couch with a start. Viktor is already rising. “I heard it too,” he says, and she catches sight of his face.

“Viktor, your face—” she says, blushing beet-red and busying herself with sliding her pajama bottoms on and snatching her top up from the floor where Viktor had tossed it.

He waggles his eyebrows at her, doing up the buttons on his top but not tucking it back into his trousers. “Saving for later,” he says.

She laughs out loud, surprising both of them. He grabs his wand and does a quick cleaning spell on his face just as Harry’s voice says, “Hermione?”

The door creaks, and the book slams to the ground with an echoing noise. The door stops moving.

Hermione winces as Viktor waves his wand—judging by the movement, lifting the silencing spell.

“Yes, Harry?” she calls back, making no move to leave the spot she’s in.

“I heard a noise… everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” she says, cheeks burning. She wonders if she should invent a lie, but she has no idea what he heard—well, she has a suspicion, but she has no idea what else makes a sound like an orgasm.

There’s a long pause from the other side of the door. “Just checking. I’m, uh… leaving now.”

“Thanks,” she calls feebly, unable to keep up the pretense any longer. She buries her face in Viktor’s chest, and his arms wrap around her in a soothing gesture. After a moment, she bursts out in giggles that border on hysterical.

It must be the adrenaline from before, leaving her body.

“Viktor…” she chokes out, still laughing.

“That could have been much worse,” he says.

It shocks her into seriousness. Merlin, it could have been Mrs. Weasley. It could have been _Ron_ , and she doubts Ron would have knocked before barging in—privacy is an illusion in the Burrow, it’s just the way he is.

“I must go,” Viktor says. “Have stayed too long. Mama Weasley will be looking soon.”

“Viktor, no,” she says.

He smiles sadly, tipping her face up for a gentle kiss. “Do not want to go,” he says. “But we will be caught.”

“Yes, but…” Hermione feels trapped, and utterly frustrated. She’s ready to be an adult, and have a place of her own, and privacy for… all the things she wants to do with Viktor. “You didn’t—”

“Another time, you return favor. That is what you mean, yes?”

“Yes.” She chews her bottom lip for a moment. “What if… If you leaned against the door, and I—”

Viktor laughs softly, shaking his head. “Another time,” he says.

In the silence between them hangs the fact that there may not _be_ another time.

“I’ll miss you,” Hermione says finally.

“I also,” Viktor says, tugging her into a fervent embrace.

“I’m walking you to the door,” Hermione says. “No arguments.”

In the hallway she feels bold, and grabs his hand. He looks down at it with a slight smile, but does not say anything. Together they descend the staircase, and Arthur Weasley comes out of the kitchen. If it had been any other adult, Hermione probably would have dropped Viktor’s hand, but she feels, somehow, that she doesn’t have to.

“Ah, Krum,” Arthur says. “Molly said to keep an eye out for you. Are you off, then?”

“Yes, sir,” Viktor answers, letting go of Hermione’s hand to shake Arthur’s. Mr Weasley glances between the two of them.

“Well, then,” he says with a touch of awkwardness. “Safe travels, young man. I’ll, ah, leave you two to say your goodbyes. Hermione, just make sure the door is properly latched behind him and the wards will reactivate.” He disappears back down the hallway.

Viktor kisses her goodbye, not as intensely as she’d been expecting or might have liked, but with a tenderness that makes it absolutely clear to her how deeply his feelings run. She feels vaguely guilty, knowing he’s probably aware that she’s more… conflicted.

“Write soon,” she says, and it doesn’t feel like enough but it’s the best she can do.

“You must not promise not to burn,” he says solemnly, with a hint of a smile that has her grinning and poking him in the chest.

“Get out of here,” Hermione says, feeling amused and embarrassed and understood and forgiven all at the same time. “Before I don’t let you go.”

“Some threat,” Viktor says, followed by another quick kiss. “Until we meet again, mila,” he says, and opens the door.

Hermione’s fully aware the door shouldn’t linger open, so she wraps her body around it and says, “Until then, Viktor. Take care of yourself.”

As Hermione climbs the staircase back to her self-imposed library isolation, she catches sight of a head of messy hair heading down the corridor. Instead of calling out and risking the ire of Mrs. Black’s painting, Hermione hurries to catch up, slipping an arm around Harry’s.

“About earlier…” she begins, as if they’re picking up a conversation they’d left unfinished. In a way, that’s what she’s doing.

Harry stops dead in the middle of the hall and says in the same muted tones, “I don’t want to know.”

He doesn’t sounds angry. Puzzled, she says, “But—”

“Hermione, look at me.” She does. There’s understanding there in his face—maybe he had seen Viktor come upstairs, or maybe he had overheard a conversation between the adults about Viktor’s presence in the hose. But she knew that _he_ knew. She feels her cheeks begin to color at the idea that he’s perfectly aware what he nearly caught her at.

Not unkindly, he repeats, “I really do not want to know.”

For a moment Hermione’s temper spikes, because she hates being confronted with the idea that Harry might always protect his friendship with Ron at the expense his friendship with her. But intellectually she understands the desire for plausible deniability in a situation like this, fraught as it is with tangled love lines, so after a moment she nods.

“I’m off to bed, then,” she says, perhaps a little tersely. “Good night.”

“Wait,” Harry says, catching her hand as she disentangles from him. “Are you… hurt? Or did something bad happen?” He looks so very uncomfortable to be asking, but determined at the same time, and it goes a long way to soothing her earlier injured feelings.

She truly believes he’d try to hex Viktor Krum if she asked him to.

“Nothing bad happened,” she says delicately, cautious of the line of neither of them want to step over now. “Only… good.”

“Good,” Harry says awkwardly. She almost laughs when he squeezes, then drops, her hand. “Good night, Hermione.”

 _Hard to be seventeen_ , she thinks. They’re all just trying to do their best.

“Good night, Harry,” she echoes. “Sleep well.”

Besides, she realizes as she walks away, it’s better this way. Now this can be a secret just for her and Viktor.


End file.
